The Knitter's Story
by Megera22
Summary: A origin story in a Tale of Two Cities. Find out what really happened to one particular knitter. Oneshot.


The Knitter's Story

It was the peak of life in France, for the aristocrats and monarchs. Everyone lower was miserable and starving. A married woman sat and held her child close to her breast. To-day was the fourth going without food. She tried her best to keep her child alive.

As the young boy clung to her chest, she held two needles in her hands and knit a loop for every monarch who passed. One loop for everyone. The loops built over time and formed a blanket. It wasn't large, but it was large enough to give warmth to her starving child.

The French woman held back tears as her child's face looked thinner than before. Where was her husband? Begging for money or food to help his family. She would give her portion to her son. He needed it more than she.

A cough caught her attention. She looked down. The boy was pale and sickly. He looked green and clammy as he squeezed his eyes closed in pain. His ribs were clearly visible through his skin and his cheeks seemed to suck into his face. He finally opened his dark lifeless eyes and looked to his mother.

"Mama?" he said gingerly.

"Yes, my dear boy." Her voice cracked.

He coughed again. "I'm so hungry. Do we have any food?"

The mother took a breath of air and stayed silent. She refused to lie to her son. But she didn't want to disappoint him. Instead, she lifted her son and began to walk. She was withdrawn and hated to be around other people. So, she was often silent, but this called for action.

She walked, looking for some sort of generous person. The man she found was high and mighty looking. He held a walking stick and wore a tall hat upon his head. His smile seemed gentle and his eyes glowed with the sun.

The mother ran to him and fell upon her knees.

"Please, misère." She begged. "I beg you, provide my child with some food for he is starving ad nigh unto death."

The man didn't look at her and walked past without acknowledging her existence. Her eyes showed shock. Turning, she held her son close to her as she chased after him.

"My lord," she called. "Please give us food. My son is dying."

At that time, the tall man brought up his arm and hit her aside with his cane, shoving her into the street. She fell to her knees, trying to prevent her son from falling from her arms. Her eyes darted to the man she looked to for help, and his eyes didn't even wander to her form. Her breath escaped her. The man she begged to provide food for her and her son left without saying a word. She watched his disappear into the crowd and the mother began to cry. No one would help her, no matter how she begged.

She cried for her son, for her life being as hellish as it was. She stayed like that for what seemed as forever. And she's be damned if she pitied the men and women of high society.

Her eyes wandered to her child, after noticing the lack of movement, and her once stopped tears began to flow again. She placed her hand on his thin face, he didn't stir. The mother let out a shaky breath.

"Son?" he didn't respond. "Please, my boy, wake up." Her son stayed silent.

Her vision stayed blurry as tears stung at her eyes, squeezing them tightly shut and held the corpse of her son to her. She let out a sob of utter depression as her tears began to fall again. No one around her paid any attention to her.

Her knees stayed to the grime ridden pavement for several long, agonizing, hours as her grief took over her. To her, her world was dark, cold, and silent. She chose to not see or her the surroundings environment. Until one sound began to cut though the endless darkness of her world.

"The monarchy has ignored us long enough," a male voice said to a large crowd surrounding him. "They have denied us food, water, and life. What will you do to save your children?"

The former mother's eyes flared with fire as she looked up to the man rallying his followers. Her heart became as cold as the ground beneath her legs, her emotions dead after what happened. Standing, she let her son's body fall limply to the ground.

She walked dead like to the crowd and listened as her cold heart grew less human.

"Fight back, no one deserves this more than our so called leaders. Down with the French Monarchy!" the man raised his fist where the people followed and repeated his last sentence.

"Send them to the Guillotine!" One woman shouted, gaining a roar of agreement.

Thus began the revolution of the French people to the monarchy. Every day, a group of former higher classed men, women, and children were sent to the massive killing machine. The crowd would cheer and shout when each head was taken from the body of the person.

The former mother stood in the middle of the action, provided with plenty of material for her knitting. One head gained one loop no matter who it was.

She was silent for every event, indulging her want of revenge on the people who treated her wrongly. She held little emotion within her heart, except for pure desire to punish the higher class.

A new cart entered the square as she watched the blade fall. The crowd around her cheered with bliss.

The next man was pulled out and he resisted against the men who held him down. His eye looked around with terror and landed on the knitter.

"Madam, please, save me." He begged.

She remembered him, the stick that forced her into the street. He denied her the food she needed to save her son.

His voice rang to her again. "Please madam, have mercy."

She looked at him with cold eyes and a movement lower in her hands caught his. She added another loop, sending him to his death.

One thing that people of France learned during the beginning of the revolution is that no one escaped the wrath of Madam DaFarge.


End file.
